


La Cité des Enfants Perdus

by Donna_Immaculata



Series: Nightshapes [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blindfolds, Body Paint, F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Sensation Play, tightlacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You want to take me to a party where people have sex with strangers?” Athos looks at him pityingly. “What about me suggests to you that the concept appeals to me in any way, shape or form?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Your artistic sense,” Aramis says.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	La Cité des Enfants Perdus

**Author's Note:**

> For Max, without whose invaluable input this would not have been possible.
> 
> And for the ladies of the science and literary salon, for obvious reasons.

The wooden steps creak under Athos’ feet and dust rises in grey clouds as he climbs all the way up to the sixth floor. When he reaches the door to Aramis and Porthos’ flat, he fumbles with the key, pushes it into the lock and gives it the sharp tug to the right he knows is required to unlock it. He steps into the corridor, avoids knocking Aramis’ bike over, and knocks on the door to his right. “Porthos?” he says. “Porthos!”

There is no answer, and he follows the sound of music all the way down the corridor and into the kitchen. Aramis and Constance are sitting at the table, smoking. They both beam at Athos when he enters. Athos walks up the steps onto the landing and puts the Red carefully onto the table. “Porthos not in? He asked me to lend him the camera for tomorrow.”

“No.” Aramis reaches behind himself, picks a mug from the cupboard and pushes it across the table to Athos. “He’s with Flea, I don’t know when he’ll be back. Leave it here and text him. Fancy a cup?”

“Sure.” Athos picks up the cigarette case from where it’s lying before Constance and looks at her. “When did you start smoking?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “I didn’t. I don’t. This is an isolated incident. A protest of the juvenile sort.”

Athos pulls out a cigarette, lights it and breathes in the smoke. “What are you protesting against?”

“Unfairness.”

“Unfairness in general or in a particular instance?”

Constance takes a deep drag on her cigarette, coughs, and taps Aramis on the arm. “What do I do?” She sounds unhappy.

Aramis grins, pats her hand and looks at Athos. “It’s nothing. Her boy’s making trouble.

Athos raises his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth curls up in his not-quite-smile. 

Constance facepalms. “Oh god this is so embarrassing,” she says. “I sort of… have an affair with d’Artagnan.”

“An affair?” Athos says, looking from Constance to Aramis and back again. “That sounds very grown-up.”

“And French,” Aramis says, grinning.

“At least one of the people involved _is_ French,” says Athos. “Jacques.”

“That explains it.”

“Oh god,” Constance repeats, her face still hidden in her hands. “What am I doing? I can’t end up shagging my flatmate.”

“Why did you let him move in anyway?” Athos asks. “You’ve lived with Jacques for years. Having another man move in seemed rather odd.”

Constance and Aramis exchange a look.

“Well, posh boy,” Aramis says. “Let me explain some facts of life to you. Not everybody was born into old money. And you might not have noticed, like the rest of us have, that rents have spiralled out of control in the last few years.”

“We couldn’t really afford the place any longer,” Constance says. “We had to compromise: either Jacques gives up his home office and we rent out the room to a lodger, or we give up the flat.”

“And you decided to take in a doe-eyed creature with skinny hips and lush lips,” Aramis muses. “Was he your choice, Constance?”

She slaps him on the arm. “Shut up, you. Reprobate. It wasn’t like that. I never even thought of him like that, he’s so young. He was just a schoolboy when he moved in.”

“And now he’s a man,” Aramis, who clearly enjoys the entire conversation way too much, says with relish. “And whose fault is that?”

Constance glares at him.

“Go on,” Aramis says. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and leans in. “Slap me again. You know you want to.” He exhales a cloud of smoke.

“You filthy pervert,” Constance says. “I’m not touching you again.

“What do you mean by ‘sort of’?” Athos asks. “You said ‘sort of an affair’. Are you having one or not?”

“Oh, and you.” Constance shakes her head. “Why did I think it’s a good idea to discuss this with either of you? He,” she jerks her head at Aramis, “thinks it's all excellent fun, and you,” she points her finger accusingly at Athos, “think that there are clear-cut rules and categories.”

Aramis and Athos exchange a look. Aramis shrugs. “What did you actually do? You can tell us.”

“Nothing,” Constance says defensively. “I haven’t slept with him.”

“Are you going to?” Athos asks.

“No!” Constance shakes her head vehemently. “Of course not! I’m not going to sleep with him, I can’t do that-”

Aramis looks up at the ceiling and nods in a way meant to convey scepticism. “The moment you say ‘I can’t do that’ is the moment it’s decided. You are going to do that.”

“Oh fuck off.” Constance is starting to get angry. “You think you’re such an expert on this. Not everyone is the same.”

“You asked me for advice. If you don’t want to end up sleeping with him, kick him out. Send him away, drive him into somebody else’s arms.”

“You mean _your_ arms? If anything I’d drive him into Athos’ arms. He adores you,” she says to Athos. “You should hear how he talks about you.”

Athos glances at Aramis. Aramis holds his gaze, smirking filthily, and raises his eyebrows. Athos isn’t sure if he wants to punch him or kiss him.

“What does he say about Athos, Constance?” Aramis purrs.

“He kissed me the other day,” Constance says, ignoring Aramis’ question. “In the kitchen.”

“Did you kiss back?” Athos asks and sips his tea. 

“He caught me off guard.”

“Come on, Constance!” Aramis says. “D’Artagnan has been flirting with you pretty much since day one. You think he adores Athos? Well, let me tell you, he’s utterly smitten with you.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m not stupid. But I never took it seriously. He’s just a boy, he only just arrived in the big city, he was smitten with anything and everyone. I happened to be the woman he saw around every day.”

“ _And_ you are a very attractive woman,” Aramis says. “Let’s not forget that.”

She grimaces, but looks pleased at the same time. “You know your compliments don’t work on me, right?”

“I mean it.” Aramis presses his hand to his heart. “I never lie in these matters, Constance. Athos, tell her.”

“You are a very attractive woman,” Athos says in a very level voice. “And Aramis doesn’t lie in these matters.” He locks his gaze with Aramis’, willing him to look away first.

“So you snogged in the kitchen,” Aramis says, dragging his eyes away from Athos and threading his hand through his hair. “Once?”

Constance drinks her tea, very slowly.

“Okay. More than once,” Aramis says. “Do you like it?”

“He told me he’s in love with me,” she says in a low voice. “I feel horrible.”

“He told you he’s in love with you and you haven’t even slept together yet? He really isn’t from Berlin, is he?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Athos asks.

“I don’t know.” Constance is holding her mug between both hands; she looks young and lost. “I’ve no idea what to do.”

“What about Jacques?” Athos stubs the cigarette end in the ashtray and reaches for a new one.

“I know!” Constance says. “Don’t you start. I know about Jacques, I can’t stop thinking about him and what it’d do to him if he ever found out.”

“Don’t let him find out,” Aramis shrugs.

“That easy, is it?” Constance is getting angry. “Is that your advice: do it behind his back, don’t tell anyone?”

“It works for him.” Athos layers his voice with all the sarcasm at his disposal. Aramis stares at him wordlessly. Athos shrugs. “Adele,” he says simply. “To name but one.”

A noise above their heads startles all three of them. Constance looks at the ceiling, Aramis and Athos glance at the window. There’s a rustling and a scraping, and then a high-pitched miaow and a small grey tabby appears in the open window, perches on the edge for a moment or two, and leaps onto the table. It miaows again and stalks over to where the humans are sitting. Aramis gets up.

“Hello, Mr Cat,” Constance says, scratching the tabby behind the ears. It butts its head into her palm, purring, but then slinks around her arm and strides over to Athos.

“It’s Miss Cat, actually!” Aramis calls from where he’s standing by the fridge. 

“Did you find out at last?” Athos is petting the cat who has thrown herself on the table before him and is writhing under his hand.

“Porthos took her to the vet the other day.” Aramis comes back, carrying a bowl and a small plastic bag. He puts the bowl on the table and throws the bag at Athos. “Cat treats. Give her some and she’ll love you forever.”

“I think she’s loving him already,” Constance says. The cat is ignoring the food in the bowl and is attempting to rub herself into Athos’ hand instead.

“Turns out she’s chipped. She lives a few houses away and apparently enjoys long walks on the rooftops,” Aramis explains. “She only comes over to be petted and fed and then returns to her owners.”

“How very handy,” Athos says in a voice that he knows is dry as dust. The cat bites his finger.

“It is,” Aramis says, with a long, direct gaze that delves into the very depth of Athos’ soul.

“I can’t cheat on Jacques,” Constance picks up her story. 

“Of course not,” Aramis says. Athos shoots him a commiserating look. “I mean it,” Aramis continues, “I’m not egging you on to cheat on Jacques, Constance, truly, I am not. I’m only saying that if you don’t kick d’Artagnan out, you _will_ end up cheating on Jacques.”

“You already are,” Athos says. “If you continue to snog the boy in the kitchen.”

“It’s not always the kitchen.”

“How stupid of me. In the kitchen and around the house.”

“Do you have to be so immature about it?” Constance says in disgust. “Both of you. I thought we were friends. You could try to take it seriously. This is not a silly game.”

“Constance.” Aramis takes her hand and strokes his thumb over her fingers. “I’m sorry. You’re right, we were being flippant.”

“I think the word Constance used was ‘immature’,” Athos says.

“Yes. That too. Sorry. I do take it seriously, I promise. But honestly, if you want to know if there’s an easy way to deal with it: there isn’t. You have to make a choice, and it will be painful, not matter what you do. That’s the thing about a moral dilemma.”

“It’s so unfair,” Constance says.

“I know. That’s just how it is.”

“So you’re saying that no matter what I do, I’m screwed.”

“Yeah,” Aramis runs his hand through his hair. “Pretty much. But you can choose in what way you’re screwed. Hurt one of them now, or hurt both of them later. You’ll be hurting yourself in any case.”

“Are you in love with d’Artagnan?” Athos asks.

“Yes.” Constance’s eyes begin to fill with tears. “That’s the awful thing about it,” she whispers. “I am, I really am. But how do I know if this is real? How do I know that it’s not just, you know, infatuation? A beautiful dream?” She looks from Athos to Aramis. “I can’t give up everything I’ve got with Jacques to run off with d’Artagnan. That would be madness.”

“What do you have with Jacques?” Athos reaches across to pick up the cat who’s finished eating, has washed itself and has just started to chase the cigarette case around the table. She briefly mrows in protest, but then curls up in his lap willingly.

“What kind of question is that?” Constance says with a hint of her usual spirit. “You know what I have with Jacques.”

“No, we don’t, actually,” Aramis says, exchanging a glance with Athos. “We know that you’ve been together since… always, and that you run a business together. That’s it.”

“Do you love him?” Athos asks.

“Yes,” Constance says. “Yes, of course I do. But I’m no longer in love with him, not like-”

“Not like with someone who’s new and exciting and who’s head over heels for you,” Aramis says. “Not to mention very pretty. You know that you’re not unique with this problem, right?”

Athos shoots him an angry sidelong glance. 

“Sorry,” Aramis says. “I was being flippant again.” He scratches his temple with his thumb. “Is he worth giving up what you’ve got with Jacques for?”

“No!” Constance says and frowns. “Oh.”

“Well, at least that was decisive,” Athos says. “Aramis is right. You’ve got to tell d’Artagnan he’s got to move out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I won’t. I know I won’t. Even if I wanted to, the moment I get home and he smiles at me… You know his eyes light up when he looks at me.”

“Aww,” Aramis takes her hand in his again and kisses her palm. “You’re utterly smitten too. You’re such a smitten kitten.”

“Are you… are you quoting Friends at me?”

“Sorry. But you’ve got to admit it fits.” Aramis is beaming at her, all warmth and tenderness. “If you can’t kick him out and you don’t want to cheat, you’ll have to tell Jacques.”

“It’ll break his heart.”

“Yes. Yes, it will.”

“You and Jacques,” Athos says, weighing his words carefully, “how long have you been together? I can’t remember a time when you weren’t.”

“Since school,” Constance says. “Since my last year in school. He’s eight years older of course, he was about to graduate from uni when we got together. But I’ve known him ever since I was a girl, he’s friends with two of my brothers. When I went off to uni, we moved in together straightaway.”

Athos nods. Constance studied fashion design, and she and Jacques have set up a business creating and supplying film and theatre props and costumes. They seem like a good team, but he’s never seen them as a couple. Constance is sparkly and full of life, whereas Jacques is pompous and has no discernible sense of humour. It’s hard to believe that he’s Aramis’ age.

“Perhaps it’s time for a change,” Aramis suggest gently.

“You think I should give up Jacques,” Constance bristles. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“Look. We’re going round in circles,” Aramis says. “I’m not saying pick the one or the other. All I’m saying is, think about what you want, and then make a decision. I don’t care about Jacques-”

“No,” Constance says. “You’ve never liked him, neither of you have.”

“We don’t really know him,” Athos says, stroking the cat in his lap absentmindedly. She’s stopped purring and has fallen asleep. An ear flicks every now and then when his hand passes over her head. “Think how long I have known you, Constance. And think how often I met Jacques in all those years. He never wanted to have anything to do with us.”

“With your friends,” Aramis adds.

“We can’t make that decision for you,” Athos continues. “We can barely make our own decisions.”

Aramis lifts one corner of his mouth in a smirk. Before anyone can say anything else, Aramis’ mobile beeps. He pulls it out of his pocket and reads the text, frowning.

“I’ve got to go.” Constance is getting to her feet. “Anything wrong?” she asks Aramis, who’s still staring at the phone in his hand.

“What?” He looks up as if coming up from underwater. “No. It’s fine. It’s Ninon, someone’s cancelled at the last minute.”

“Cancelled what, your orgy thing?” Constance says primly. 

“It’s not an orgy,” Aramis says. He sighs, “Really, they’re not orgies.”

“I don’t care.” She walks around to Athos and kisses him on the cheek. “Don’t get up,” she says, scratching the cat behinds the ears. “You’re needed here.”

“Good luck,” he says. “Aramis is right, think about what _you_ want.”

Aramis walks her to the door, and Athos lets out a deep breath. He picks up his tea mug, drains it and reaches for another cigarette, but stops himself in mid-motion. They taste quite awful actually; he’s never been much of a smoker. He’s fallen into the habit of smoking with Aramis lately, who’s an occasional party smoker. Athos suspects that Aramis uses cigarettes solely as a fashion accessory. 

Athos buries his hand in the cat’s fur instead. That’s much more wholesome, surely.

Aramis comes back in, typing a text. He looks up at Athos with a rueful little smile and sits down.

“Everything all right?” Athos asks. “Did your orgy get cancelled?”

“They’re not orgies,” Aramis says. “Really, they’re not.”

“Right.”

They stare at each other across the table.

“Do you want to come?” Aramis says. “You could see for yourself.”

“You would take me to your-” Athos bites his tongue.

“Play party,” Aramis supplies.

“Play party?”

“Why not? Unless you don’t want to. But if you’re curious, come along. Ninon told me to bring someone if I can think of anyone, and-”

“And?”

“And there’s no-one I’d rather bring than you.”

“You want to take me to a party where people have sex with strangers?” Athos looks at him pityingly. “What about me suggests to you that the concept appeals to me in any way, shape or form?”

“Your artistic sense,” Aramis says.

“What?”

“Your artistic sense.” Aramis leans back in his chair and tilts his head back. “You’ve got an eye for beauty, and for capturing extraordinary moments. And a taste for voyeurism.”

“Pardon me?”

“You make intimate, personal documentaries, you invade people’s lives on a regular basis.”

“You want me to come along and watch?” Athos leans in, crossing his arms on the table. The cat wakes, leaps off his lap and begins to wash herself. “Watch how you fuck a stranger?”

“I’m not going to fuck anyone,” Aramis says. “That’s not… that’s not what it’s about.”

“People do have sex there.”

“Yeah. Some people do,” Aramis says. “That’s true of every party, though.”

~*~

They take the u-bahn to Charlottenburg and get off at Deutsche Oper station. Their destination is one of the elegant old bürgerhauses, its ornate façade made from sandcastle-coloured stone. Aramis rings the doorbell and Athos relaxes negligently against the wall. “You okay?” Aramis asks. Athos nods. He is okay, he finds. This feels much easier than he thought it’d be. He might not have fully grasped what the evening holds in store for him, but he’s not worried. To his own surprise, he realises that it’s because he trusts Aramis. In all that they did so far, Aramis has been absolutely spot-on: he’s gauged Athos’ reactions correctly and never pushed his boundaries. If Aramis says he’ll be okay with this, Athos assumes he will. It’s a startling epiphany, one that he didn’t expect, and he smiles and shakes his head at his own thoughts.

“What?” Aramis asks. He looks nervous, Athos thinks. He threads his hand through his hair and looks rather like a colt that’s been spooked. Athos reaches out and touches Aramis’ sleeve lightly.

“It’s fine,” he says.

“If you want to change your mind, you can still do it,” Aramis says. “Rule one: it’s always okay to stop. Anytime.”

Athos nods. “Do _you_ think I’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Aramis smiles. “Yeah, I do, I really do.”

The buzzer goes and Athos pulls the heavy door open. “I expect I will, then.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Aramis says in the lift. “That’s the most important thing to know. You don’t have to do anything. And if you decide to do something – you never know, you might meet someone with whom you click – you can always stop.”

“Meet someone?” Athos says. “Didn’t you bring me for yourself? As your, what do you call it, play partner?”

“Well, yeah, that’s the set-up. But people swap around.”

“Had I known you’re going to pimp me out, I’d have shaved,” Athos says. Aramis starts to laugh. Still laughing, he leans in and kisses Athos on the mouth, a gentle, chaste pressure that makes Athos’ lips curve up in a smile.

“I hope you’re at least wearing clean underwear,” Aramis whispers against his mouth.

“Always since I’ve met you.”

The lift stops. The woman who stands in the open door across the corridor is someone whom Athos has seen before, but can’t quite place. She’s blonde, poised and expensively dressed. She wears a tailor-made black corset with royal-blue laces and trimmings and a skirt that conceals her legs and emphasises their shape at the same time. Athos feels confidence ooze from her and solidify into a force field around her. “Aramis,” she says in a husky voice. “Always a pleasure.”

“Ninon.” Aramis takes both her hands in his and kisses her on the temple. “You look more beautiful than ever. How do you do it? Have you sold your soul to the devil?”

“Your flattery doesn’t work on me,” she says.

Aramis lets go of her hands and leans in so that he towers above her. “You’re the second woman who said this to me today,” he says in a low voice. “And yet-” he smiles.

She smiles back and tears herself away from him. “Will you not introduce us?”

“Athos.” Aramis reaches out, takes Athos’ hand and pulls him closer. “Meet Ninon. She’s our hostess for tonight.”

“Welcome,” Ninon says with a regal nod. “It’s good to meet you at last. I’ve seen you around several exhibitions lately, we appear to have a similar taste. I’ve always thought how attractive you are.” Athos smiles, suddenly tongue-tied and unsure how to react. “He’s very beautiful of course,” Ninon says, indicating Aramis with a nod, “but he flaunts it too much. You are intriguing.”

Athos frowns, opens his mouth to speak, closes it again.

“But clearly not very articulate,” Ninon continues. “Or have you cast yourself as the strong silent type?”

“Not at all,” Athos says. He looks down at her and thinks how beautiful she is. How much of a turn-on her confidence is. How aware she is of the effect she has. “I was about to tell you how beautiful you are,” he says. “But then I thought you know.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t like to hear it,” Ninon says. “Come in.” She steps aside and lets them enter. The walls and the floorboards in the hall are a rich ivory colour. Her heels click on every step, and it is one of the sexiest sounds Athos has heard in a long time. Aramis takes off his coat and toes off his trainers, and Athos copies him. Ninon waits for them, looking very much like a Grecian statue as she stands framed in the door. There hall is entirely uncluttered; there is one large painting on the wall, deceptively minimalist, yet clearly very valuable.

“Food and drinks are in the kitchen,” she tells them. “Everyone who’s not in the kitchen is in the living room.” She indicates the next door. “Aramis, help yourself to whatever you like. I’ll show Athos around.” She takes his hand, and he follows her, glancing back at Aramis, who is standing in the door to the kitchen and looking at him with an expression that makes his heart race. When he sees him looking, Aramis licks his lips and presses his hand to his heart, and Athos’ knees weaken.

“The living room is where most of the scenes will take place,” Ninon explains, walking him slowly around the large rectangular room. Athos looks up at the high stuccoed ceiling, takes in the elegant furniture – a unique, surprisingly harmonious blend of Parisian rococo and Chinoiserie elements. The walls are for the most part bare; there is one Chinese impressionist painting and an abstract one. There are also five or six masks which look simple and primitive at the first glance, but which, Athos is convinced, are intricate works of art. Flea says that entering Aramis and Porthos’ flat is like time-travelling to the 1990s. But this here, this is like stepping into a long-distant past.

The impression of a bygone era is somewhat marred when Ninon leads him to a table in the corner, discreetly placed behind a paravent. It holds a supply of condoms, gloves, dams, lube, two whips of some sort and a paddle, and it brings him crashing back into the 21st century.

“No toys?” Athos says, before she can mock him again for being struck dumb.

“Most tops like to bring their own,” Ninon says. “I never asked,” she turns to him and looks him straight in the eye, “are you a top or sub?”

“Why?” Athos asks, ignoring the way his blood is pounding in his ears. “Are you mentally assigning me to one of your other guests?”

“Not at all,” she says. “You came with Aramis, I’m not trying to pair you off with anyone else. Unless you meet someone here who takes your fancy,” she says that entirely artlessly, as if she weren’t aware how much she has taken his fancy and how much the idea that she is within his reach titillates him. “I asked out of idle curiosity. But since you’re with Aramis, I’m guessing you’re a switch.”

Athos merely smiles with a corner of his mouth at these words. So, he is ‘with Aramis’ now. He’s been wondering for weeks how that makes him feel – the fact that he’s being acknowledged as the person Aramis is currently sleeping with. Even though they are _not_ sleeping with each other, as Aramis pointed out on that morning in Athos’ kitchen. They’re not going to sleep together tonight, either, despite the fact that they are attending what will technically become an orgy, no matter how much Aramis insists that the correct terminology is ‘play party’.

“You’ve met just about everyone now,” Ninon says, who has been leading him from little group to little group, introducing him to the other guests. One or two faces look familiar, but he’s never spoken to any of these people before. “The bedroom is through here, but that’s probably of little interest for you, as you’re not here for any sex play.”

She pushes the door open, and there’s a flurry of fabric and a whirl of hair. Suddenly, the scene settles into a tableau, and Athos realises that what he’s looking at are two young girls, both dressed in pristine white corsets and Victorian-style drawers, who have been startled by Ninon’s and his sudden appearance.

“You two are still here?” Ninon says. “You should be out there, showing our guests around.”

“Yes, Ninon, sorry,” one of the girls says, and they both actually curtsey. “We just wanted to lace our corsets properly.”

“I know what you wanted, Fleur,” Ninon says. “Athos, these are Fleur and Thérèse. They’re our service subs tonight. They’ll be fetching water, helping with the scenes,” she explains. “And they should be out there checking if they have everything they need.” She steps closer to the girls. “Turn around,” she says to the one who has spoken before, Fleur. The girl obeys instantly, and Ninon pulls at the laces of her corset. “You wanted to lace it more tightly,” she says, “come on, then. Let me see what you can take.” She tugs at the laces with nimble fingers, and it is just like that scene from Picnic at Hanging Rock; the mixture of ingénue innocence and underlying sexual debauchery makes for a powerful concoction, and Athos’ head swims. 

Fleur’s corset is laced so tightly the girl can barely breathe. It is digging into her flesh, and it must be painful, but Ninon ties the laces confidently, and the girl doesn’t complain. 

“Turn back to me,” Ninon says finally. Fleur’s face is flushed, and her breasts are pushed up impossibly high. Ninon runs her finger over Fleur’s collarbone and down into the cleft between her breasts. 

“What do you think?” she turns to Athos.

The girl’s blush deepens, but she holds his gaze defiantly, her chest moving up and down rapidly. 

“I think,” Athos says, “you don’t want my opinion, because all I could contribute is just another dreary male-gaze perspective.” It is just this side of uncomfortable, looking at a girl who’s barely out of her teens, and assessing her body. “And I don’t think this is what you are after.”

“Good answer,” Ninon says. “Girls, off you go.” They scurry past her and Athos, and it _is_ just like Picnic at Hanging Rock, and he wonders briefly which role he is supposed to play. But before he can make up his mind, Ninon is standing very close to him. She snakes her arms around his neck, pulls his head down and kisses him. Athos is kissing back, deeply, and he has to check himself, because he’s no longer used to kissing a woman. Aramis is the only person he’s been kissing lately, and with Aramis he doesn’t have to be careful. He forgot how much softer, how much smaller a woman is. Ninon tastes as expensive as she looks, and when they pull away, he’s a little bit breathless and a little bit hard.

“Did I startle you?” Ninon asks. “I apologise. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. But I promise you, I won’t do it again, unless you want me to.”

“Next time, I will be prepared,” Athos says. He doesn’t say that he’s been thinking of kissing her ever since he entered her flat. 

“Good,” she says. “I like the sound of that.” She takes his hand in hers again and leads him out of her bedroom.

~*~

“Did you enjoy the tour?” Aramis appears by his side, drinking something that looks like a cocktail; he holds out a second glass to Athos.

“It’s a great place,” Athos says and takes a sip. “Juice?” he says.

“Mixing alcohol and play is very much not done. There’s wine, though, we can have some later.” Aramis looks around. “Did Ninon show you her study? Well, you’d love it. She collects antique books. Quite a lot of it is pornography, actually.”

“Some of it has been in the family for generations, am I right?” Athos says.

“Yeah,” Aramis laughs. “I knew you’d spot a fellow aristocrat straightaway. You should ask her to tell you about her family history, you’ll love it. A great-great-great-grandfather of hers fought here during the Franco-Prussian war, fell in love, got married, stayed. That’s how the German branch of the family originated, but they’re very proud of their French roots.”

“Obviously.” Athos feels himself relax more and more into the familiar rhythm of a conversation with Aramis. “What does she do?”

“She’s got a PhD in Anthropology, and a degree in Sinology. Everything that looks in any way East Asian,” he says with a sweeping gesture, “she brought back from China. She spent several years in some godforsaken region along the Russian-Chinese border, studying the languages of some ethnic minorities for her PhD thesis.”

Athos watches Ninon as she talks to her guests across the room. “This really is fascinating.”

“She’s a fascinating woman.” Aramis smiles and clasps Athos’ arm. “I told you you’ll like it here.”

“You make it sound like it’s some sort of literary salon,” Athos says.

“Whereas you expected a grubby gangbang.”

“Judging by the lube and the condoms, I expect there will be some banging later.”

Aramis glances at the corner with the paravent and taps his fingers against his glass. “Yes, there will. But it’s not mandatory, some people are here for non-sexual plays only.”

“What are you here for?”

“I-” Aramis breaks off and grimaces at the sight of two new guests who have just entered the room. “Aw, fuck. It’s the Bonnaires.”

Athos follows his gaze. A dark-haired man with a deep tan, a massive earring and a flamboyant dress sense and a slim athletic woman with startlingly piercing eyes are exchanging hellos with other guests.

“Whatever you do, keep away from them,” Aramis says. “He’s a creep, and she’s… she’s actually even scarier than he is.”

“Why are they here, then?”

Aramis shrugs. “Some people enjoy that sort of thing. They’re into heavy rape play,” he explains. “They always play to the safe word and don’t stop until the sub actually says ‘red’.”

“Isn’t that the point of the safe words?”

“Well, yes and no. Many use safe words as a precaution, rather than playing to. With the Bonnaires you always have the impression that they might ignore the safe word. They never did, to my knowledge; they would hardly get invited to these parties if they did. But there is that element of edge to their play.” He laughs. “Quite literally, actually, because Maria is into knife play.” He taps against the base of his throat and Athos glances at the thin white line there.

He looks over at Maria Bonnaire and back at Aramis. “She cut you.”

“Yeah. Well, it was consensual.” Aramis shrugs. “She pressed a knife to my throat and I didn’t stop her until she drew blood. There was that one endless moment when I thought she was going to kill me, I could _feel_ her cutting my throat, I felt the gush of blood. It was…” he looks away from Maria and locks his gaze with Athos, “it was incredible, the adrenaline rush, the danger. But I never did anything with her since, I don’t trust her to stop.”

“When was that?”

“What? Oh, ages ago, about five years or so,” Aramis says in an off-hand voice.

Five years ago. Athos remembers – vaguely, because he didn’t pay much attention to Aramis then, wrapped up in his own misery as he was – Athos remembers how jittery and edgy Aramis was for months. He had a permanently bruised appearance. Not physical bruises, at least not where everyone could see them; it was as if hurt was seeping out of his soul and manifested itself in the shadows in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the brittleness of bones and skin.

“Plus, she’s a professor of anthropology and he’s a research fellow at the department. Ninon knows them from university,” Aramis adds. “I guess that’s also a reason why they get invited.”

“That’s one way to spice up a team bonding exercise,” Athos says. Aramis smirks.

Athos keeps away from the Bonnaires, but he can’t keep his eyes from straying over to Maria Bonnaire every now and then. She, too, is beautiful, in a haughty, ice-queen sort of way. He can picture her easily wielding a knife, and he can picture Aramis baring his throat to her unflinchingly, measuring her with that firm, steady gaze of his.

It’s odd, Athos thinks, how relaxed he is. Considering that he’s not a party person under the best of circumstances, it’s rather surprising that he feels almost at ease at a sex party. Aramis was right, as usual; the set-up, the entire ambience appeals to his artistic sense, and it’s a relief to know that there are rules. Everything that is going to happen tonight will happen within clearly outlined boundaries. It’s not the most romantic approach, but it’s unexpectedly erotic. He and Aramis are chatting with a woman whose name Athos has forgotten and who is a researcher at the Charité, passing a bowl of grapes to and fro and idly watching a couple doing needle play right in front of them. To Athos’ right, a man is being caned, and one of the service subs – Fleur, Athos reminds himself – checks if his ropes are still in place and still comfortable. Fleur looks up and smiles at Athos, and he smiles back. She has loosened her corset again, he notices.

Fleur comes over and curtsies. “Is there anything I can do for you?” 

The Charité researcher shakes her head. “I’m all set, thank you.” She points across the room to a woman kneeling with her head bent and her hands behind her back. “Two more minutes and I’ll leave you guys alone.”

She leaves, and Ninon strides over to them before Athos has time to panic at the fact that he’s alone with Aramis now and that surely, surely he is expected to do something, because they can’t spend the entire evening just watching other people. Ninon is carrying a wooden box which she puts on the table by the chaise-longue. She looks from Aramis to Athos. “May I?” she asks.

“May you what?” This is it, then. The dreamlike bubble that’s protected him so far bursts, and reality comes surging in. He draws himself up and pins her with his gaze.

“I’d like to borrow Aramis for a while,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”

“He’s his own man,” Athos says.

“He’s at least partly yours,” Ninon says. 

Athos glances at Aramis from the side. Aramis wears a calm, knowing expression as his eyes flicker to Ninon and back to Athos. “Do you think it’s the right decision?” Athos asks.

“Absolutely.”

Athos turns back to Ninon. “Green.”

They both watch Aramis take off his shirt and jeans, and it’s an intensely intimate experience, despite the fact that they are surrounded by at least a dozen of people, all of whom are in varying stages of undress and arousal. The Charité researcher has her partner in verbal bondage, and the woman’s entire body is vibrating with the effort of holding her legs in a position that is killing her abs, while she’s being eaten out. Athos wonders fleetingly what, exactly, is going on in the bedroom, if people are already having sex here in full view.

Aramis stretches out on the chaise-longue, and Ninon opens the wooden box. It contains several quills and brushes and what looks like a bottle of ink. Ninon takes out a blindfold. Aramis tips his head back to look upside-down at Athos, who is standing by the foot end of the chaise-longue. “Green,” Athos says and, on impulse, takes the blindfold from Ninon, kneels down and puts his hand on Aramis’ hair. “Lift your head,” he says and wraps the blindfold around his eyes. He leans in and brushes his mouth across Aramis’. “Enjoy,” he whispers.

“You too,” Aramis whispers back, with a small smile unfurling in one corner of his mouth.

Ninon passes her hands up Aramis’ flanks and motions him to raise his arms above his head. “I need Fleur to fetch me a rope,” she says, looking around. “Unless you can restrain him.”

“Sure,” Athos says, crosses Aramis’ wrists above his head and holds them in place.

“Whatever you do, hold on to him,” Ninon tells him. “Do not let go.”

“I won’t.”

“He won’t,” Aramis says.

Athos feels Aramis’ forearms tense when Ninon touches him again. She runs her hands down his body in a practised gesture, stopping when she reaches the waistband of his pants. Athos’ heart leaps into his throat. Aramis is not full hard yet, but the outline of his cock is clearly visible already. His stomach flutters when Ninon pressed her palm against it. She snaps the fingers of her other hand at Fleur and points at the table holding the wooden box. Fleur shifts the table into Ninon’s reach.

Ninon straddles Aramis in a rustle of fabric; her skirt bunches around her hips and spills in elegant folds over his stomach and her thighs. She brushes the fabric away from his stomach. Athos feels him tense again when she moves; when the material brushes over his skin. He presses his thumb to the pulse point on Aramis’ wrist, and Aramis’ fingers flex and then relax again. 

Ninon reaches for the box, picks up a quill and twirls it between her fingers. Athos shifts his grip around Aramis’ wrists, just as Ninon drags the feather of the quill over the edge of Aramis’ jaw and down his neck, dipping it into the hollow of his throat. Aramis’ entire body tenses and arches off the chaise-longue. He hovers, suspended between the weight of Ninon in his lap and Athos’ grip around his wrists, taut like a bowstring, and Athos wonders how he is supposed to take what is yet to come if even that simple touch had such an effect on him.

Ninon brushes the feather down his sternum and circles his nipple with the tip, and Aramis’ muscles twitch under Athos’ fingers. The pulse at the base of his throat is racing; Athos can only imagine how hard he must be, how helplessly turned on Aramis is, trapped between the silky heat of Ninon’s thighs and the feather’s ghostly whispers over his skin. He, too, is hard. His blood thrums in waves through his body, it pounds in his ears, in his throat and in his cock. Ninon maintains her haughty composure still; the expression in her eyes is as cool as the blue of her corset. She drags the feather up Aramis’ side and into his armpit. Aramis moans, convulses and almost slips out of Athos’ grip. Athos opens his mouth to say something, but Ninon presses one finger to her lips. He shifts his hands instead and takes Aramis’ wrists into one hand each. Aramis’ fingers curl around his wrists in turn, tightly. Somewhere in the room someone groans and curses and Athos realises dimly that he’s just witnessed a stranger come, but he doesn’t care. He’s caught up in this scene, in Aramis and in Ninon, and in the way their bodies react to each other. They are not playing, Athos doesn’t understand how anyone could ever call this playing: this is deep and serious and mind-blowingly intense. He’s not even involved, not directly, and yet his head is spinning just from watching them. The feather travels from Aramis’ armpit, over the tender skin on the inside of his arm, and Ninon twirls the tip into the crook of his elbow, making him gasp. It traces the lines of his veins all the way to his wrist, and by the time Ninon tickles his palm and fingers with it, Aramis’ arm is trembling from shoulder to fingertips. Ninon moves the feather to his other hand and sends it on the same journey in reverse: from his fingers, skipping over Athos’ hand with a light touch that makes him shiver, down the inside of Aramis’ forearm and into the crook of his elbow, and then all the way down to his armpit. 

The moment Ninon lifts the feather off his skin and leans back, Athos leans in and licks off the sweat that has gathered in the hollow of Aramis’ throat. Aramis throws his head back with a moan. Athos shifts to accommodate his hard-on that is trapped at an uncomfortable angle. He’d love to reach down and adjust himself, but he must not let go of Aramis’ hands. Just as he wonders if that was it, if this particular game is over, Ninon turns the quill around and drags its point from Aramis’ chest bone to his navel. Aramis’ whole body convulses, and Athos grabs his wrists more firmly as they are threatening to slip out of his sweat-slick grip. “Fuck,” Aramis spits out through clenched teeth. He’s gasping for breath, but Ninon doesn’t let him catch a break. The sharp point dips into the soft skin above his hip and leaves red marks in its wake as she draws patterns on his skin.

And then, Ninon dips the end of the quill into an ink bottle and turns him into her canvas with a flick of her wrist. Athos watches mesmerised as she covers Aramis’ skin – the hollows where collarbone meets shoulder, the arc of his ribs, the soft, sensitive expanse of flesh above his hipbone – with Chinese characters. She’s crouched above him with an expression of the utmost concentration on her face, and it is just like The Pillow Book and infinitely more erotic. Athos wants to lick the trace of every single quill stroke with his tongue.

Aramis’ body is a work of art when Ninon finishes writing. She puts the quill aside, selects a brush with a bamboo handle and traces broader, bolder lines over Aramis’ chest. The brush snags in the hairs there and the ink smears, but the result is beautiful still. She catches a stray drop of ink with her thumb and brushes it over his nipple. And then, she leans over him and kisses him on the mouth, tangling one hand in his hair. They break apart panting, and as Ninon slides off Aramis, Athos’ gaze travels automatically to his crotch. The damp fabric of his pants does nothing to hide his hard-on. Athos realises with a jolt that it is so wet, because Ninon has been sitting on him. Either she’s wet enough to have soaked her own underwear _and_ his, or she’s not wearing anything underneath her skirt. When he looks up at her face, Ninon’s eyes are dark and her face flushed, her composure has slipped at last. She presses her thumb against Aramis’ lower lip, forcing his mouth wider open, and lowers herself astride his chest, aligning her thighs with his arms. She looks up into Athos’ eyes, and he reads the question therein. 

“Green,” he says and startles at the sound of his own voice, rough and breathless with lust. Between them, Aramis groans. 

Ninon shifts, hitches up her skirt and frames Aramis’ face between her thighs. “How quickly,” she says, and her voice is rough and husky, “how quickly do you think you can make me come?”

Aramis lets out a strangled laugh. “That depends on how turned on you are already.”

Ninon steadies herself with a hand on Athos’ shoulder and slides across Aramis’ mouth. 

“Oh, Ninon,” he mutters and arches into her.

Her hips jerk and she gasps and grabs his hair. “Hold still while I fuck myself on your mouth.”

She comes mere minutes later, with a groan and with spasming thighs. The hand on Athos’ shoulder clenches painfully, and she slips off Aramis, who is gasping for breath. His face is wet and glistens with her come. Ninon catches Athos’ eye, leans in and kisses him, deep and slow. Her lips feel swollen under his mouth. Athos lets go of Aramis’ wrists and cups her face with one hand. With his other hand, he strokes Aramis’ palm, traces the strokes that Ninon’s brush has left on his skin, down the length of his arm, and presses his hand to Aramis’ face. Aramis turns his head and kisses his palm.

Ninon breaks the kiss, stands up, and straightens her skirt. “I’ve got to see after my other guests,” she says. “Thank you,” she leans down again and kisses Aramis, who smiles lazily into the kiss.

“Always a pleasure,” he says.

Ninon brushes her fingers over the blindfold. “You can take this off now,” she says and walks off.

Still kneeling by Aramis’ head, Athos strokes over the smooth fabric of the blindfold, taking in the scene before him. Aramis like this, spread out before him, turned-on and pliant, his mouth wet with somebody else’s come – and Athos could simply unzip his jeans and shove his cock into Aramis’ mouth. He wonders if he would be able to come from that, here, surrounded by all these people. 

“I never thought I’d end up in a Greenaway film,” Athos says.

Aramis smiles. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah.” Athos slides his fingers over the curve of Aramis’ temple and into his hair. “I did.”

Aramis’ smile deepens into a smug smirk.

“Did you?” Athos asks. He can’t tell if Aramis has come or not. He’s no longer fully hard, he can see that, but it’s impossible to tell if his pants are damp with his own come or Ninon’s. “Did you come?”

“No,” Aramis says. “That’s not the point, either.” He flexes his fingers and rubs his wrist. 

“Sorry,” Athos says and touches his hand. “Was that too hard?”

“No, it was good. It was necessary. I knew you’d know what to do.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No, you did. Really, you did. It’s not so easy to restrain somebody bodily.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that strong.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. It can be draining, seeing someone you care about at the mercy of another person. And keeping them in place, that’s the real challenge.”

“Yeah. Perhaps.” Athos takes a deep breath and looks around. Somewhere behind him, a woman is being flogged. The Charité researcher and her partner have disappeared, and he is suddenly intensely aware that he’s surrounded by strangers. He steps outside himself in that moment; his focus changes and he’s no longer in the room, but looking at it through a lens. It’s a set, that’s what it is, and he’s standing outside it, watching the actors perform. The familiar sensation of alienation floods over him. What am I doing here? he mutters wordlessly, and: How can I use any of this?

When he turns back to Aramis, the blindfold is gone. Aramis is blinking against the light. He’s flushed and his hair is sweat-soaked. “Come on,” Aramis whispers, “let’s go to the kitchen and open a bottle of wine.”

~*~

The wine is expensive and good, just as Athos expected. Aramis has slumped to the floor, leaning heavily against the wall, and Athos sits down next to him. “What now?” He begins to feel self-conscious, but not overly so. Aramis was right, his artistic sense has been tickled, and he is already categorising images in his head. Arousal lingers still, mixing with the wine in his blood.

Aramis turns his head to him and raises his eyebrows. “Home?” he says. 

“Let me finish my wine first.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean straightaway.”

“Have you slept with her?” Athos asks, not quite sure why.

“Athos, please.” He smiles, and Athos smiles back, and just as he’s about to kiss Aramis, Fleur comes into the kitchen.

“Oh, hello,” she says. “Here you are.” She looks flushed. “May I?” She kneels down next to Athos and shifts to sit next to him. “It was really nice to meet you,” she says and puts her head on his shoulder.

Athos looks at Aramis, frowning. Aramis shrugs.

“I know we haven’t properly met, but I see you around all the time, and I never had the courage to speak to you.”

“Really?” He should probably pay more attention to what’s going on around him when he’s out socialising; the number of people who have ‘seen him around’ is growing at an exponential rate. “Well, it was nice to meet you, too.”

“Can you lace my corset a bit tighter?” Fleur sits up with her back to him. “I’ve got to go back in.”

Athos tugs at the laces and feels her body straighten and tense. “All right?”

“Yeah. Make it tighter than that… Yes, like that.” She turns around, keeping herself very straight, and raises herself to her feet. “Thank you,” she curtsies. “And see you around.” Athos acknowledges her words with a nod of his head, and Aramis with an expansive flourish of his hand.

“I think she likes you,” Aramis says after Fleur has left.

“She’s a kid.”

“True. I’m not saying you should sleep with her. I’m just pointing out that women tend to like you. Perhaps it’s time you let go of… whatever happened with you and Anne.”

Athos freezes. “That’s none of your business,” he says coldly. How is it possible that he felt so close to Aramis only minutes ago? Now, all he wants is to distance himself from him; he wants to go home and take a shower and drink two bottles of strong red wine.

~*~

Athos maintains a determined silence on the u-bahn back. It wasn’t Aramis’ fault, but he feels resentful nevertheless. He should have known, he felt so good all day, he should know by now that this never lasts and that the comedown is dark and depressing.

Aramis leaves him alone, mercifully, and Athos can give himself over to his thoughts. He re-emerges when they arrive at Friedrichstraße station, and the lights, the people, force him to interact with the outside world again. Aramis has spent most of the ride typing something on his mobile. He, too, is distant and closed-off. Athos can barely believe that this is the same man who lay spread out before him, as good as naked and covered in elegant writing an hour ago. The writing is still there, under his clothes, and when Aramis shifts and his shirt collar falls open, Athos can see smudged edges of letters peek out from beneath the fabric. His thoughts stray back to the scene on the chaise-longue, to how intensely erotic the experience was. Oddly, it’s not Ninon to whom his thoughts turn, but Aramis. Aramis, who is within his reach, and yet appears miles away. 

The strange thing about Aramis is how inaccessible he is. Athos senses that he only now begins to realise the extent to which Aramis shuts other people out. Aramis appears to be the most open and straightforward man Athos has ever met, but Athos finds paradoxically that the closer they had become, the less he understands how Aramis ticks. After their first serious fight in the wake of Marsac’s return, followed by mind-blowing make-up sex, the memory of which made his skin tingle for days, Athos expected Aramis to discuss Marsac with him. He was in fact worried that it was his duty to become Aramis’ confidant, doomed to listening and required to provide advice and support. But Aramis never said a word, not after that day. They didn’t speak for days, in fact, both busy with their own lives. Athos spent five days buried in work, barely even leaving the house, until he managed to produce an edit that he felt he could send off. It barely registered that Aramis never called or texted, and he didn’t have the time or energy to call Aramis.

But now, as they walk towards the exit together, he feels guilty. He never asked, and he should have asked. Aramis looks tense, just as he did that day when he texted Marsac, and Athos worries that he might go off and do something stupid. 

It’s raining when they leave the station and step out into the busy street. The things unspoken weigh down on him again; on Aramis too perhaps. Athos isn’t sure. Only an hour ago, was so sure of Aramis’ affection. Now, all he can think is that Aramis bestows his affection on everyone, indiscriminatingly. That it doesn’t mean that he cares for Athos more than he cares for the tabby cat whom he indulges occasionally by feeding her and petting her, but whom he doesn’t miss when she’s not around. 

The bond between them is not as strong as the bond between Aramis and Porthos; nor as strong as it was between Aramis and Marsac, and he wonders – and he has to know, has to know right now, if Aramis and Marsac have picked up where they left off five years ago. If Aramis’ silence that stretched over many days had something to do with the fact that Marsac was back.

“Are you meeting someone?” Athos asks. Aramis raises his eyebrows in unspoken question. “You’ve been typing furiously ever since we left Ninon’s place. It looks like it’s important.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to ignore you. It’s just Porthos, I’m sending him stuff for tomorrow.”

“Right.” Athos feels almost let down when the punch to the gut is not forthcoming. “You look unusually grim. Last time I saw you like this was when you were texting Marsac.”

Aramis stops and looks around, as if checking for an escape route. Athos stops likewise. Rain is pouring down in torrents, and they are both drenched to the bone already. “Marsac is dead,” Aramis says.

What rushes though him is not relief. It’s not sympathy, either. Shock mingles with fury, and he sways, physically, under the blow of Aramis’ words. 

“He killed himself. Last week,” Aramis says, speaking directly into Athos’ face, unwavering. “Although, he’d been dead for a long time before that. His soul died five years ago, and he came back home so that his body could die here.”

“Aramis,” Athos says, and pauses. He’s angry beyond endurance, and he doesn’t know why. “Why didn’t you say?”

“I didn’t want to drag you even deeper into this mess.”

“And you didn’t think that I would find out?”

“No. Yes, but the more time passed, the more irrelevant it’d be.”

“Irrelevant? Aramis, he was your friend.”

“You don’t have to remind me.” Aramis begins to get angry too, and it’s reassuring to see that he’s got so much energy to fight. “But you didn’t like him and you didn’t think I should have anything to do with him.”

“How I felt about him was irrelevant. It was about you.”

Aramis shakes his head. “Look. Just because we… just because you have sex with me doesn’t mean you have to feel obliged to, if I may use a stock phrase, be there for me.”

“Sometimes,” Athos says, seething with rage, but maintaining a tight control over his voice, “sometimes I wish we lived in a different era. One when men settled their disputes like men. Because I really want to punch you when you say things like that.”

They glare at each other, and the torrent of rain is like a filter between them, a physical barrier that makes it impossible to see the other’s face clearly. It strips them bare by drenching them, and it shrouds them at the same time. 

“Sorry,” Aramis says. “I didn’t mean to make it difficult for you.”

“Idiot.” Athos steps around him and raises his arm, hailing a taxi that’s just appeared around the corner. He takes Aramis’ hand, and Aramis follows him inside without another word.

~*~

Aramis is huddling under a blanket on Athos’ bed when Athos comes out of the bathroom, towelling his hair. He’s typing again, it’s almost as if he thought Porthos didn’t know what to do if he didn’t receive Aramis’ guidance every step of the way.

When he hears Athos come in, Aramis looks up: “I’m fine.”

Athos throws the towel in the direction of the chair in the corner. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. I just thought. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“I don’t.” Athos sits on the bed next to him. “As long as you are fine.”

“I am.”

Athos relaxes against the headboard, watching in silence as Aramis types. Aramis finishes, but he continues to stare at the phone, and Athos reaches out, takes it off him, puts it on the nightstand and strokes over Aramis’ bare arm with the flat of his hand. The reaction is instantaneous and overwhelming. Aramis rolls over and curls up in his arms, shivering. Athos buries his hand in Aramis’ hair.

“I’m not really fine,” Aramis says.

“No. You’re not.”

Aramis trails his fingers from where they rest against the side of Athos’ neck down to his waist. His arm, as it moves across Athos’ chest, is still covered in dark smudges; they look like pagan symbols in an ancient language. Athos doubts that anyone could decipher them now, and he traces the fading lines with the tip of his finger. 

“Do you know what it said?”

Aramis shakes his head. “Knowing Ninon, it was probably a poem. Something that doesn’t translate well into a Western language. Something that looks better written out than it’d sound to our ears.”

“Perhaps it’s a shopping list,” Athos says. “Or IKEA assembly instructions.”

“No. Ninon has much too much artistic sense for that kind of thing. She’d be appalled if contents didn’t correspond with form.”

“Is that why she chose you for this? Because she thinks you’re beautiful?”

Aramis smiles. “How well you understand her.”

“She kissed me,” Athos says. “When we were alone.” He feels his heartbeat quicken as the confession leaves his mouth, and he knows Aramis feels it too.

“I expected nothing less.”

“You don’t mind.”

“How could I?” Aramis whispers. 

Athos rolls him over and pushes him with his back against the headboard. He’s straddling him in the next moment, kissing him with tongue and teeth, hard and vicious. He can still taste Ninon, Aramis’ beard is coated in her scent. He grips the headboard for better leverage, and digs the fingers of his other hand into Aramis’ thigh. Aramis grabs the edge of the bed, moaning, and his head falls back with a thud under the force of Athos’ assault. It’s incredible how hard they both already are, as if their bodies had only been waiting for permission to fling themselves into the throes of ecstasy. Athos raises himself above Aramis, steadies himself with a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, pushes his pants down with one hand and kicks them off his legs. Beneath him, Aramis does the same, and when Athos lowers himself back into his lap, Aramis throws his head back and hisses.

“I want you to come,” Athos says very clearly, looking Aramis directly in the face. 

Aramis chokes out a strangled laugh. “Okay.” He pulls Athos down and kisses him, deep and urgent, pushing his hips up into the weight and pressure of Athos’ body. Athos slides along Aramis’ pelvis with a long, smooth motion of his hips. “Fuck,” Aramis gasps. “Fuck.” He’s gripping the edge of the bed again. “So good, Athos.”

Athos kisses him again, already dizzy as arousal spirals. He uses his last ounce of control to reach for the lube in the drawer, and he squeezes the tube out over his own cock and over Aramis’. It sizzles on his heated skin, and the contact is painful enough to jolt him back to his senses. Aramis, too, comes up from a daze. He grabs a pillow and shoves it behind his back, pushing himself into a half-lying position.

Athos begins to move above him, sliding back and forth as he straddles Aramis’ hips. Bracing himself with both hands on Aramis’ shoulders, he watches his cock glide slickly against Aramis’ with every long sway of his hips. Aramis arches beneath him, and then his hips fall into a steady rhythm that matches Athos’ perfectly. 

“I want you to come,” Aramis whispers, echoing Athos’ words. “Will you?” He lathers his hand with lube, wraps it around Athos’ cock and his own, and then his hand picks up the rhythm of Athos’ hips. His grip is so familiar now, firm and tender at the same time, and it looks beautiful, the way his fingers curve into a loose fist. The way Athos’ own cock and Aramis’ slide in and out of his grip. Aramis’ other hand rests on Athos’ waist and he’s caressing the curve of Athos’ ribcage with his thumb. “Faster,” he says, “please.”

Athos groans and pushes down with his full weight, grinding himself into Aramis. His vision narrows, until all that is left is the sight of his cock fucking itself into Aramis’ hand. His body is shivering and sweating, and his hands and feet begin to tingle when his orgasm builds and all heat pools into his centre. Beneath him, Aramis groans and his rhythm falters. Athos’ head snaps up. Aramis’ eyes are black and huge, and he’s staring at him, unflinchingly. Athos leans in, shifting his hands on Aramis’ shoulders until his thumbs come to rest in the hollow of his throat, just above the smeared line of ink. Aramis arches his neck into the touch. He’s so close, shudders are running through his thighs and stomach like electric currents. Aramis is staring directly at Athos, and the vicinity makes it painful and uncomfortable like a frontal shot, the intimacy of it is almost too much. But Athos grits his teeth and pushes through the discomfort; he never breaks eye contact with Aramis, not until the first numbing push between his legs blackens his vision. Athos’ head falls forward, but Aramis cups his face. “Look at me,” Aramis whispers, and Athos does, even though everything’s gone dark and blurry, and he’s coming into Aramis’ hand, or perhaps Aramis is coming first, he can’t tell, and the sharp-bitter smell of semen rises up in a cloud from between their bodies.

“Oh fuck,” Athos says, when he’s regained control of his wooden lips and tongue. He’s collapsed on Aramis and finds it impossible to move away.

“Yes,” Aramis says. He runs a shaky hand through Athos’ hair and down his shoulder and back. 

“Can you move?” Athos asks.

“Mmh.”

“Turn off the light then.”

Aramis’ chest and stomach quiver with not-quite laughter as he reaches across, fumbles, and manages to find the switch. Darkness envelops them like a safety blanket, and Athos inhales shakily. 

“You don’t tell me things either,” Aramis says all of a sudden. 

“Don’t tell you what?”

“The things that really matter. The things that are not my business.” Aramis pauses, but as Athos remains silent, he takes a deep breath and says: “Anne.” Athos tenses, but Aramis holds him and doesn’t let him roll away.

“You want to know about Anne?”

“I think it would help,” Aramis says. “Don’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Play parties such as this do exist. And if there's anyone who would frequent them, it's Aramis.
> 
> Title taken from the 1995 fantasy film La Cité des enfants perdus (The City of Lost Children)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nightshapes by Donna_Immaculata FanArt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692823) by [The_Ghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Ghoul/pseuds/The_Ghoul)




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